The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  Miss Paterson faded from my consciousness again and I marched a dozen steps back in the direction we’d come. “There. Carey reins his horse in and shouts out to Ellen. He affects to know very little about horses, but if he’s been exploring and hunting for ten years he’ll know at least as much as I do. He pretends there’s a problem with the animal, perhaps its hoof or shoe. Ellen, being a vet, will dismount to take a closer look. She bends over — he strikes!” I pounded my fist into my palm and Miss Paterson caught her breath. “He breaks her neck — easily done if you know how — waits a few minutes, and goes for help from the house.” I pointed to the right. “That’s it, that’s all he need do.”

  “Remarkable, it’s just as if I’m watching the tragedy unfold.”

  I spun on my heels. “But why! Why the hell would Carey want Ellen dead? Or who on earth would pay him to kill her if that was it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  “People don’t kill without a reason, a motive.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “It won’t do. There must be something we’re missing. Where there is a motive, there is benefit: either an advantage gained or an ill avoided. Who benefits from Ellen’s death? Other than me.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it over and over and over again, but I can’t conceive of anyone.”

  I offered Miss Paterson my arm once more and we walked along the remainder of the lawn at a more sedate pace. “In her diaries Ellen mentions problems with Bartlett and the conditions the animals were kept in at the zoo. She wrote that you’d arranged for her to talk to a gentleman from the Humanitarian League. Is that right?”

  “You don’t think — ”

  “I don’t think anything at the moment,” I interrupted, “but would that meeting have harmed Bartlett and the zoo management?”

  “Well, Bartlett might have found his questionable practices under public scrutiny.”

  “Then there’s also the duke,” I said, opening the gate to Holme Green.

  “The duke?”

  “The Duke of Bedford. Carey was — is — desperate to secure his patronage.”

  “You don’t think — ”

  “I don’t, but it’s a start. Ellen made an enemy of Bartlett, and perhaps this man Sclater and Russell as well. We’re looking for someone who benefits, and there’s one, perhaps more,” I finished.

  “Oh! That’s dreadful, I feel as if I led her to her death!”

  “Of course you didn’t. I’m thinking out loud, it’s just a scatterbrained notion.” A tear ran down her left cheek and I wiped it away with my forefinger before offering my handkerchief.

  She took it and dabbed her eyes. “Are you sure it wasn’t my fault?”

  “That’s about the only thing I am sure of. There may be more to this matter or there may be something else entirely that I’ve missed. Tomorrow — no, tomorrow will be a waste of time when it comes to interviewing people, won’t it? On Monday I’ll pay a visit to Bartlett and Sclater, and make arrangements to see the Duke of Bedford as well. And this Lord Hope.”

  “Lord Hope, whatever for?”

  We joined a crowded path again, on the south side of the lake. “You’ve described him as a man similar to Carey in character. Also, he’s having financial problems. Financial problems can make a man desperate. He may be involved with Carey, or know something about this.”

  “About tomorrow,” she said before pausing. “I’m sure you’ve had masses of invitations, but I wondered if you’d like to join me — for luncheon or dinner?”

  “Actually, I’ve had none. Either no one knows about my VC or they’re bored with war heroes. Who’d be interested in a retired major when Lords Kitchener and Roberts are here?” I laughed. “So I’m most grateful for your kind invitation; thank you very much. There’s just one thing: I’ve been recruited by Superintendent Melville — ”

  “The King’s Detective!”

  “Yes.”

  “How exciting. Is that how you were able to read the official reports of Ellen’s death?”

  “Something like that,” I answered. “Anyway, I’m at Melville’s disposal at present, and he may have some use for me tomorrow. If you can provide me with the details of both parties, then I’ll let you know whether or not to expect me as soon as I know whether I’ll be needed.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, just turn up if you can.”

  “If you’re happy with such an informal arrangement, it would suit me better.”

  “I am. I’m a guest of Lord Morley for luncheon at the National Liberal Club. I’m sure I’ll be able to get you in, just ask for me at the door. It starts at eleven o’clock and we’ll probably be there until about three. Then father is hosting a dinner at our house. Nothing extravagant, just about twenty guests. I’d like you to meet him, anyway.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

  I led Miss Paterson across York Bridge, at the narrow end of the lake, and shortly we arrived in York Terrace.

  “I have to leave you here,” she said, “I’m already late for dinner at father’s. I come and go as I please, naturally, but I can’t let cook down. She’s doing something special in advance of tomorrow’s feast. Tomorrow’s dinner is for seven o’clock, if you aren’t working.”

  I didn’t think she came and went as she pleased at all, despite her apparent worldliness. “Thank you again for spending the afternoon with me. It was… helpful, and very — it was good to see you again so soon.”

  “My pleasure, Mr Marshall. Would you hail me a cab?”

  I called one which was passing, and opened the door for Miss Paterson when it stopped alongside.

  “Well, I hope we shall see each other tomorrow, Mr Marshall.”

  “So do I. Miss Paterson, I wonder if you wouldn’t call me Alec?”

  “I’m not sure that would be proper.” She quickly climbed up on to the seat.

  “Good evening, Roberta.” I closed the door, smiling to myself. Once the cab had left, I walked back along the south-western edge of the park, into Cornwall Terrace, and then Sussex Place. I knocked on Ellen’s door and was admitted by Williams, who asked if I would like dinner prepared. He was surprised when I replied that I’d sup with the staff. There had also been a message while I was out. The Windsor had phoned to pass on an invitation to meet at noon tomorrow — alone — at the Monument, in the City of London.

  It was from Hugh Armstrong.

  16. The Doctor’s Revelation

  I’d no idea what to make of Armstrong’s invitation, but I was determined to meet him. Whatever he was up to, I wanted to know about it. Noon would be about the time the King was crowned, so the streets would be impassable. I had plans for the morning, and wasn’t sure how long they’d take, or how I’d get to the City, but I could leave that until tomorrow. In the half hour before dinner I went up to Ellen’s study to continue my researches. I began with her second-to-last journal, skimming through the pages for any mention of Carey or Russell. There were none. I went back to the beginning of last year, with the same result, and then joined the servants in the kitchen. The meal was excellent, and although I enjoyed it as much for the fried fillet of trout and garnished ham as for the informal atmosphere, I had another motive for dining with Ellen’s staff: to establish some sort of rapport before I questioned them.

  After we’d eaten, I interviewed them one by one, in the parlour, starting with Williams. I began with a lengthy preamble regarding the importance of complete candour, and then asked each of the six the same six questions. Unfortunately, all their answers were identical: nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Ellen, or anyone in the household, in the few weeks before her death; she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary herself; no one unknown or new to Ellen’s circle had called or left messages for her; Ellen hadn’t seemed preoccupied or upset; she hadn’t mentioned Carey, and he hadn’t telephoned or visited; finally, Ellen had no known enemies. In short, the interviews were a necessary waste of time with
regard to evidence, though they afforded me another welcome glimpse into the character and life of my dear sister.

  I told Kate, the parlour maid, that I’d see myself out later, and returned to Ellen’s study once again. I continued with the journals, going as far back as her visit to South Africa in ninety-nine. There was nothing obviously relevant to her death, but I soon understood how she’d become so well known so quickly. Ellen had been the only woman studying veterinary science at Glasgow University, the only woman volunteer at the Zoological Gardens, and one of a handful of women who were Fellows of the Zoological Society of London. When she’d returned from her African travels she’d lectured the ZSL, the Royal Society, and Newnham College, Cambridge. She’d found friends and admirers in all these places.

  Most of veterinary science was aimed at treating horses, which were both an important part of the economy and a substantial source of revenue for aristocrats practicing the sport of kings. Ellen’s decision to specialise in the exotic creatures exhibited in the zoo was thus both unusual and unlikely ever to provide her with much in the way of remuneration — even if Bartlett hadn’t been such a slave driver. Bearing in mind my initial observations to Roberta, I also looked for an indication of a man in her life, someone who might have been more than a friend. Once again, there was no evidence that Ellen was anything other than entirely dedicated to her studies and work.

  Later, I found myself back at her final diary entry. There were only two differences between Ellen’s last week of life and any other week since she’d begun full-time employment at the zoo. One was Carey, and the other Henry Salt of the Humanitarian League. Would her report to Salt be damaging enough to the zoo for Bartlett or the Duke of Bedford to prevent it by whatever means necessary? Surely not. Had Carey taken it upon himself to remove an obstacle for the duke in order to curry favour with him? The idea was preposterous and yet my sister was lying buried in the graveyard at St James’ Church.

  It was time to see Dr Maycock.

  A cab dropped me on the Whitcombe Street side of Leicester Square at just after ten. The square was heaving with throngs of people of all kinds. Some were walking, some shouting, some begging; others were just milling around, enjoying the atmosphere of the night before a bank holiday and — more importantly — the night before the coronation, our first in sixty-five years. I ambled along slowly, taking in the sights and sounds. Leicester Square held particularly fond memories for me. It was here, in the week before I entered Westminster School, that my father brought me to see a ‘patriotic demonstration’ entitled For the Colours. It was the first time I’d been to a music hall and I absolutely loved it.

  It was also probably the last happy memory I had of my father. Once I was boarding at Westminster, I grew my own way, which was very different to his. I thought about Ellen again, and how much he must have hated the fact that she’d become a New Woman. He’d been unable to influence the lives of either of his children for all the money and power he’d accumulated. Ellen had been particularly brave for — where I had in effect run away to make my own life — she’d done it under his disapproving gaze. She’d struggled against overwhelming odds and succeeded.

  I was going to make sure that whoever had extinguished such a bright flame paid the piper.

  When I’d watched For the Colours with my father in ’eighty-six, the Alhambra had recently been rebuilt after a fire. The new building had been added to and altered three times since, until it completely dominated the square. The two tall towers and massive dome were in the Moorish style, with lavish fenestrations all over the hundred-foot-high frontage. Many people didn’t like it, and the square was regarded as London’s dirtiest and most unpleasant, full of foreign styles and languages. It was certainly dirty and full of foreign influences, but I enjoyed the atmosphere. Here, in amongst the ebb and flow of humanity in all its forms, one felt not only at the centre of the world’s greatest empire, but at very centre of the planet.

  Leicester Square recalled Rhodes and his Society of the Elect. He may have scoffed at Freemasonry, but his Idea wasn’t very different from theirs. Although I’d declined an offer to join a Lodge in Durban, I knew a little about Masonic beliefs and practices. They were neither pro- nor anti-Christian, and acknowledged the supremacy of the Great Architect of the Universe. What or who the Great Architect might be, was for each man to decide on his own, but in order to join, one must consider this power both supreme and beneficial. The character and works of the Supreme Being were understood and explained using the allegory of the craft of stonemasonry.

  Rhodes, however, regarded himself as the Supreme Being rather than the Worshipful Master of a Lodge. He had recreated himself in the image of the Great Architect of Empire, with the intention of imposing his own moral values on the entire world. He was the Architect, as he saw it, and men like Milner, Chamberlain, and Jameson were the individual Lodge Masters, continuing his great work to its ultimate conclusion: a world where only England remained, because every other country had been Anglicised. Milner had already begun his work in the SAR and the Orange Free State. It wasn’t enough that they had acknowledged British sovereignty, he wanted them to speak in English, to pray in English, to be English. The irony was that should Milner succeed, he would never consider them English — they would always be something lesser.

  The Great Architect’s work must be dismantled. Perhaps there wouldn’t be much to it. Milner and Jameson were obviously at loggerheads and the more the executors of Rhodes’ will squabbled amongst themselves, the less likely they were to collude in ruling the Empire. Perhaps the Society and the Idea were already crumbling and wouldn’t outlive Rhodes for much longer — or perhaps not. Either way I resolved to place myself at Melville’s disposal until Rhodes’ work had been undone.

  I jostled my way to the front entrance of the Alhambra, where posters advertised tonight’s performances. For all its foreign appearance the theatre had always been a bastion of patriotism and support for King, country, and Empire. Tonight was no exception: Dr Maycock was at Britannia’s Realm. The operetta was about to finish, and would be followed by In Japan and then variety shows late into the night. As soon as the mass exodus from the theatre began, I moved over to the entrance of the Cavour. I saw Dr Maycock approaching the restaurant with a group of nearly a dozen men and women. He was deep in conversation with a lady a few years younger than him, and didn’t notice my greeting. I tugged at his arm.

  He stared blankly, then recognised me. “Marshall, good Lord, it’s Major Marshall! How do you do? Come inside and join us for a drink!”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I’d like a private word if it’s all the same. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Let’s go inside anyway. You can buy me a drink. It’ll be just as noisy inside as out, so no one’ll hear us.”

  He was right; the bustle was even greater inside, with parties of diners coming and going, and waiters weaving expertly in between the tables. Maycock excused himself from his companions and took me past the giant square buffet table to the drinks bar. At his request, I ordered a single malt whisky, which turned out to be Glenmorangie. Not my favourite, but I ordered one for myself as well. He took his without water so I thought I’d better make it a double measure for him and a single for me.

  He raised tumbler and voice simultaneously: “Your good health, Major, and my condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you.” We touched glasses, and drank. I leant close to him, so as not to have to shout above the noise. “You knew Dr Marshall was my sister?”

  “I did, but I didn’t consider it appropriate to mention it at the time.”

  “No, of course not. I’ve read the coroner’s summary, and the various reports — including your own — and I noted that you wanted a full post-mortem examination conducted.”

  “Quite so. Not that I expected my recommendation to be followed; it seldom is, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a shame. The reason you wanted to investigate further was the absence of abr
asions, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, old chap, quite.” He took a second, healthy swig of his whisky.

  “What about the absence of skeletal damage, isn’t that also suspicious? In my understanding the only bones broken were in my sister’s neck.”

  “That’s correct, but I wouldn’t regard that as suspicious in itself.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’ve seen plenty of deaths from falls. In a case such as this where there was considerable horizontal as well as vertical motion, there aren’t always broken bones. You’ve just come back from the war, haven’t you? You must’ve seen dozens of men fall off horses.”

  “Yes, but none of them died from it, although one did break his back.”

  “Poor fellow, how very unlucky. Breaks or fractures do occur, but not always. There are, however, always abrasions. Always.” He finished his drink and looked wistfully at the empty glass. I finished mine and ordered a second round, with another double measure for him. He grinned and continued. “Thank you, sir. I said it wasn’t suspicious on its own, but of course I didn’t take the absence of skeletal or dermatological damage in isolation. No, I looked at all the evidence presented, physical and circumstantial. Tell me, what do you think happened?”

  “I think Carey murdered her.”

  “Your good health… ah, thank God for the Scots! So do I. And that was my opinion before I discovered that Dr Marshall was in the company of a man with so dubious a reputation. Do you know why I thought that, Major?”

  “No,” I said.

  “First and foremost because I’m a suspicious old bastard. That’s right. I’ve spent twenty-five years as a police surgeon and my experience is that when one piece of evidence fails to fit the rest, it’s an indication of circumstantial or deliberate duplicity.” He tapped his red nose and his jowls shivered. “Not to put too fine a point on it, when I smell a rat, it’s because there usually is one. A great, bloody big beast of a rat. I’m not infallible, and sometimes it’s impossible to prove anything, but most of the time I’m right. I’ve been at it too long and too hard for it to be any other way. This time I know I’m right. My experience aside there was another reason why I wanted the full post-mortem examination.” He paused for a drink. “You recall the bruises on Dr Marshall’s arms?”